Completing the huge room and effectively removing any lingering sense of being in a place designed only for work were several comfortable seating areas scattered about invitingly, including a large grouping of two long couches and a couple of wide, deep chairs in front of a rock fireplace where gas logs burned cheerfully and warded off the deepening chill of an October afternoon.
Olivia Castle was one of half a dozen people sitting there, maybe avoiding the conference table and the tablets and paper files and legal pads already assembled during the day because she wasn’t quite ready to truly confront the seriousness—and the scary uncertainty—of what they were going to face but more probably because she still felt chilled and welcomed the warmth of the fire. Rex, curled up in her lap after spending the entire morning exploring and happily meeting new friends as well as greeting old ones, was certainly enjoying it.
Especially since he was out of the hated carrier, and because there was a cook in residence who understood the delicate palate of discerning cats.
Hollis Templeton and her partner, Reese DeMarco, had arrived earlier than expected late in the morning, bearing a map and at least the beginnings of an unsettling theory of why they had all been summoned. Or, at least, why Prosperity. Right now, they were silent, faces thoughtful, possibly considering various introductions made in the last hour or so just as Olivia was; they shared one of the big overstuffed chairs, with Hollis sitting in it and DeMarco sitting on one of its wide arms.
The partners never seemed to get very far away from each other, Olivia noted. Not that they were clingy or anything like that, just . . . connected. Obviously connected.
Hollis was a slender, almost delicate woman of medium height, with short, no-fuss brown hair and eyes of an unusual shade of blue very bright and aware in her lightly tanned face. Her other features were good without being in any way remarkable, but that changed the instant she smiled and animation transformed the ordinary into something more than beautiful could ever be.
DeMarco might have been less well known among the non-SCU community of psychics than his partner, but that was because his FBI career for some years before he met Hollis had consisted of a number of highly secretive deep-cover assignments. Since leaving that more stealthy life behind, he was definitely becoming better known.
Physically he was rather overpowering on many levels. He was very large and clearly possessed the kind of strength that could never be earned in a gym, but what any woman would notice immediately was his thick blond hair, extremely sharp blue eyes, and perfect classical handsomeness. It was as if his still, watchful face had been carved from stone by a master sculptor.
Olivia had felt just a little frightened of him initially, which tended to be her default response to large, unfamiliar men, but the first time she’d seen him lean down to say something quietly to his partner, his stone face softened and made very human if only for that fleeting moment, her fear had left her.
Galen, another large and powerful man who also made her feel wary, had not made an appearance in the last hour or so; Olivia could remember hearing him say something to Bishop about weapons, and she assumed—without wanting to spend any time at all thinking about it—he was off gathering whatever it had been decided the team would need.
Both Bishop and Miranda were also absent from the room for the moment, called away quietly by a dark man they hadn’t introduced for some reason he hadn’t explained. Olivia was more than a little worried about that, but she did her best not to think about it until she had to. She considered it a cowardly trait, doing that, but it was the way she’d dealt with scary things her whole life, and she doubted very much that would change anytime soon.
Instead of thinking about scary possibilities, she allowed her gaze to wander from person to person, their scattered positions around the room not, she hoped uneasily, a sign of a team that didn’t know how to be one.
Tory—Victoria Stark—stood alone near one of the big windows, not taking advantage of what looked like a long, comfortable window seat as she gazed out at the view without, it was obvious from her preoccupied expression, taking much, if any, notice of it. She was younger than Olivia but seemed older, with all the calm, self-control, and shrewd watchfulness Olivia felt she herself lacked. She was of medium height, on the thin side but much, much stronger than she looked, and possessed silvery-blond hair cut short and expressive green eyes.
Sharing Olivia’s couch was Reno, serene as always. She didn’t look as if she’d pretty much crossed the country twice in a jet in less than twenty-four hours and with no more than brief stops, neither the least bit rumpled nor seemingly in need of sleep. Nor did she appear at all disturbed that one of the three men who had been aboard that jet when it had landed at the airstrip earlier had been sending her hard glares since they had arrived here—and probably, Olivia thought, all the way from Alaska.
Not quite ready to brave those glares even if they weren’t directed specifically at her, Olivia looked across at the other couch, which was occupied by the two other men who had arrived with Reno, the wide space between them more indicative of an automatic reluctance to get too physically close to anyone because of their abilities than of any personal animosity.
Sully Maitland she knew well. Born an empath and a strong one, he was still, at thirty-two, working to strengthen his shields; it was one of the reasons he chose to live on a fairly isolated horse ranch in Montana. He was six-two and powerful, dark hair graying at the temples a sign of struggle more than years, and the most intense golden eyes Olivia had ever seen in a human face.
She had seen something very like them once before, but those intense golden eyes had belonged to a tiger. And not one caged in a zoo.
Like Olivia, Sully was cursed with headaches and blackouts, and like her he considered the blackouts something of a blessing as long as they happened in private rather than public and there was something soft to fall on. It was, he’d told her once, the only real peace he had, since otherwise the feelings of every soul within a hundred yards of him battered at his shields like an only slightly muffled, extremely painful tide, whether he was awake or asleep.
Sully didn’t have a “frequency” that limited his range; the only thing that limited him was distance. Inside a hundred yards—almost exactly—he felt everything from any person who didn’t have a very powerful shield (or rare all-receptive rather than projecting or transmitting abilities, like Reno), and from most animals.
It was one of his unique traits, that he could sense the emotions of animals. Not thoughts, he claimed no ability to communicate with them as such, but he knew what they felt. Not all animals, but most. Including birds, especially, for some reason, crows.
It was why the cattle ranch he had inherited had become instead a horse ranch where not even the chickens were slaughtered and no hunting or trapping was allowed.
Sharing the couch at that careful distance was Logan Alexander, wary and somewhat aloof, as he generally was around other psychics. Olivia knew him, but she wouldn’t have claimed to know him well. She knew he didn’t want to be what he was—a medium, born with that ability. And since, during the single emotional outburst she could ever remember hearing from him, he had confessed that spirits quite literally haunted him, all the time, everywhere, giving him no peace, she really couldn’t blame him.
Logan was a good-looking man and probably, Olivia thought shrewdly, drew women as quickly as his abilities repelled them. He was thirty, six-one, and possessed shaggy black hair and oddly light blue eyes that were almost hypnotic. He was frowning now and had been since he’d arrived, but Olivia had no idea if it was because spirits were bothering him here—or because they weren’t.
From the corner of her eye, Olivia saw Reno move restlessly to glance back over her shoulder with a slight frown marring her normally serene expression as she somewhat ruefully eyed the final member of their team.
Or . . . perhaps not.
&nb
sp; Dalton Davenport had been born a telepath. And he quite likely would normally have developed at least a shield of sorts by the time he reached his current age of thirty-three. But Dalton was one of those unlucky souls whose psychic abilities had been misunderstood and feared by those around him from very early in his life, before he hit his teens. Abandoned by family when too young to even try to defend himself, he had lived the secretly feared horror of many psychics: Medically diagnosed with supposedly dangerous mental “disorders” that were judged to pose a danger to himself and to others, he had been kept on an ever-changing regimen of strong medications—and institutionalized.
For nearly twenty years, until Bishop had found him.
So nobody could blame Dalton for the fact that he had begun pacing almost from the moment he’d arrived, along with Reno, Logan, and Sully, less than an hour ago. They couldn’t even blame him for the fact that he had not stopped pacing for an instant and had remained stubbornly unresponsive while all the necessary introductions had been made, keeping his distance and holding on to the glare that was directed often at Reno, but saying nothing.
The problem was that Dalton not only lacked a shield to protect himself and block the thoughts of those around him: He broadcast his own thoughts and emotions. Strongly. And since anger tended to swallow up most other emotions and thoughts, what was coming off Dalton in almost palpable waves was only that. He was angry. He was so very angry. All the time.
And anger was one emotion most telepaths and empaths could not shut out no matter how strong their shields were.
Looking around at the others in the room, Olivia saw Hollis wince and rub her left temple, her blue eyes following Dalton’s pacing with both sympathy and pain.
Then she looked up at her partner, and Olivia barely caught her quiet words as he bent his head attentively.
“Can I just apologize for all the time I spent broadcasting? Honestly, I had no idea it was like this. So painful. Why didn’t you tell me?”
DeMarco smiled faintly. “Different situation.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Then he straightened and looked across the room, his attention so obviously yanked from his partner that Olivia found herself following his gaze without even thinking about it.
She saw Dalton reaching one end of his pacing path, turning blindly to start back the other way—and then Victoria moved three quick, soundless steps toward him from behind, reached up both hands to touch his head on either side, and spoke one firm word.
“Sleep.”
Dalton dropped like a stone. Victoria sort of danced back a couple steps in a curiously graceful and clearly practiced maneuver, and caught him under his arms before he could hit the floor.
She let out a grunt when she took his weight, then looked at the others. “Little help here?”
DeMarco and Sully were there in seconds, relieving Victoria of her burden and laying Dalton out on the window seat. He looked utterly boneless and totally peaceful, so much so that he was oddly unfamiliar to those who had known him longest.
“Thanks,” Victoria said.
“No, thank you,” Sully said. “My head was killing me.”
Hollis said, “So was mine. How long will he be out, Victoria?”
Since they had been quickly briefed on their journey here as to the abilities of the non-SCU psychics they’d both be meeting for the first time, neither DeMarco nor Hollis was the least bit surprised by Victoria’s ability.
She shrugged. “An hour if he’s lucky. Ten minutes if we aren’t.”
“Nifty ability,” Hollis noted with a smile as her partner returned to her side. “Is he really out?”
“Sleeping. Deeply. Never tried it on Dalton before, mostly because he wouldn’t let me, but it usually muffles whatever the psychic ability is. He’s stopped broadcasting, I take it?”
Both Sully and Hollis nodded, the latter adding, “All I was getting was anger. And his aura was going really red. Not good.”
Sully, returning to his own place on the couch, said wryly, “It’s been a while, but as I remember, Dalton’s broadcasting was usually wordless rage. Not that I can really blame him.”
“No, not with his history,” Hollis said. For a moment, she looked across the room at Dalton’s peaceful form, her expression speculative. “I wonder . . .”
Nobody really had the nerve to ask what she wondered.
Olivia spoke up then to say, “Tory put me out once when I thought my head was going to explode. All the pain went away, and it was so peaceful.” She sounded a little wistful.
Victoria joined the group around the fireplace, leaning against the back of the couch between Olivia and Reno. With a slight grimace, she said, “It’s a temporary relief—and only works really well the first time I use it on somebody.”
“What happens when you do it again?” Hollis asked.
“For the same person? The effects taper off more and more with every try. Not such deep sleep, shorter and shorter time periods. Abilities less muffled. By the fourth or fifth time they generally just blink and get mad at me.” She glanced over at the sleeping Dalton, adding, “I’d really rather not get that far with him.”
Reno looked at the two SCU agents. “Dalton was never willing, but the rest of us . . . experimented a bit over the years. Victoria was able to put all of us out. Like she said, with . . . gradually diminishing returns when it came to the active abilities, and even blocking receptive abilities like mine. It didn’t affect any of our individual abilities once we woke up. Even if . . .”
“Even if that’s what we hoped would happen,” Logan said. He frowned at Victoria. “Did I get mad when it stopped working?”
“Furious,” she confirmed immediately.
He looked a bit disconcerted. “Sorry. I didn’t remember that.”
Victoria smiled faintly. “It was a very tense time. If I remember correctly, you wanted to get away from a stubborn spirit who’d been following you around for days. I think he was standing right behind me when that last attempt failed. So you were probably more mad at him than at me.”
“Still,” Logan muttered, a tinge of color rising in his cheeks. “Sorry.”
She nodded, then looked at the agents. “So the usefulness of my ability is definitely limited. In my real life it’s helped with the occasional noisy roommate or bad date, but that’s pretty much it. Far as I’ve been able to tell, it doesn’t matter if the person I put out is psychic or not—though psychics remember what happened and nonpsychics wake up confused and wondering why they just suddenly went to sleep. Nonpsychics also tend to be out longer, even up to a couple of hours. Most psychics tend to be grateful for whatever time they’re out. They get a restful nap, at least. The first time. After a few times, it just stops working.”
“Do you know if the ability can . . . rebuild over time? Like a static charge?”
“So far, no sign of that. I’ve tried it with a couple of people in this group up to nearly three years after it stopped working. No joy. Whether because I’m limited in that way or they build up immunity or some kind of shield against it, I couldn’t say.”
Hollis nodded but said, “What about your other ability?”
“I don’t have another ability.”
Hollis’s brows went up briefly, and then she studied the younger woman, her bright eyes narrowed slightly. “Maybe you call it something else,” she said finally, “but your aura is shot through with silver on the inside, close to your body, which in my experience means you’re holding in power, electrical and magnetic energy. Power that belongs to you. And it’s stronger now than it was when you put Dalton out, which I assume would have taken at least some of your energy because any active ability does.”
“I have excess energy, that’s all,” Victoria said. “Not another ability.” There was an edge to her voice.
Hollis continued to look at her for a
moment, smiling faintly, then shrugged. “Hey, I’m all for holding back a few aces. I hope most of you have more than one ability, because I think we’re going to need everything we can get. But I should warn you that intense investigations tend to bring out everything a psychic has, good or bad, and that includes inactive or latent abilities. So it’s likely that, assuming we all survive this, your abilities will end up changed in some way. All of them. Maybe even a few you don’t—know—you have.”
“That’s your deal, your thing,” Victoria objected. “Different abilities popping up. It doesn’t happen to other psychics I’ve ever heard of.” She was still frowning.
“Well, me aside, if it happens at all, it happens with latent but existing abilities, and during SCU investigations,” Hollis said. “Because of the energies of other psychics. Because there’s generally a human monster we’re hunting, one with all the wrong kind of energy. Because of outside influences producing or using energy, even the weather or other electrical or magnetic fields. And where there’s energy involved, especially negative energy, the changes can be . . . rather drastic.”
Reno spoke up then to ask, “Do we know if negative energy is involved in Prosperity?”
“It is if something bad is happening there. Or will. We were all summoned, after all,” Hollis replied.
Bishop came into the room just then, his wife at his side and Galen just behind them. All three looked grim.
“Something bad just happened,” he said. “Something very bad.”
* * *
• • •
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8
“This is not . . . I don’t understand this. I don’t understand how this happened,” Sheriff Jackson Archer said. He rubbed his eyes briefly with both hands, as if he could erase the scene before him. But when his hands dropped, he saw the same impossible things just as he had before. What he had been standing here staring at for more than half an hour. It didn’t seem real. Even though he knew it was.